


i was the match and you were the rock

by mandyfuckinmilkovich



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Violence, Posted on Tumblr first, boyfriends who take care of each other, mentions of abuse, post 4x11 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandyfuckinmilkovich/pseuds/mandyfuckinmilkovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if he's ever had a home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was the match and you were the rock

The street is quiet and cold. The flask has been empty for awhile. Ian’s still wheezing slightly next to him and the blood on his face has dried to the point where he doesn’t have to blink and blink and blink to get it out of his eyes. He doesn’t feel the cuts on his mouth, the ache in his teeth, the tight grip Ian has on his wrist. He’s cold and numb and he looks at Ian in the dark, at his solid presence and can’t feel anything.

Ian stretches his back and grimaces, says “Let’s go home,” all quiet and hushed and his ribs hurt and Mickey wants to touch him but doesn’t want to hurt him, can’t do anything else but let Ian haul him up and turn them around and start walking.

_Let’s go home. Let’s go home. Let’s go home._ Mickey’s throat feels tight and he swallows against it. He thinks about the house, the family, the wife, the kid, the sister, the father. He wonders if he’s ever had a home, ever had something else, something more, than titles that have never meant anything to him. Ian says home and it means everything. It means family, it means warmth, it means feeling, it means love. Mickey thinks of home and. Nothing.

Ian grips his wrist again, rubbing his thumb against it. Mickey fights to breathe.

They stumble from the whiskey, from the ice on the sidewalk, from their wounds and bruises. Ian holds his wrist, holds him steady. He sees everything in a blur, the orange street light and snow and Ian’s pale face. Thinks he might be in shock, might just need a good drink, might just need to forget this night ever happened.

When they get to the house, it’s still and dark and Ian leads him quietly up the stairs, in to the bathroom, pushes him gently on to the toilet and starts running the water.

Ian kicks his shoes off, yanks his jacket and shirts off and Mickey stares straight ahead, barely seeing the dirty wall, the towels. He thinks about his dad, his kid screaming and crying, Ian’s anger in his face and how afraid he is, even still.

He glances at Ian, in his boxers now, checking the water, moving to the medicine cabinet and he can see the bruises on his back, on his ribs. His heart clenches and he bites his lip, feeling the sting of his cuts and how he deserves them.

_"I’ll fucking kill you."_

All he sees is red, all he hears is Terry, all he feels is numb. His throat is tight, closing and shaking, his eyes sting and he blinks blinks blinks until Ian’s in front of him, face still beautiful even covered in his family’s blood and hatred and guilt. He never wanted this, never wanted this to happen to him, to Ian, to them together, but he should have known it was inevitable. It was like a collision, like a fire, something that couldn’t be stopped. And he can’t breathe, he can’t see anything but Ian and the destruction he’s caused. The blood on his face and the bruises on his back.

Ian’s saying something and cupping his face and wiping wetness away from his cheeks, holding his head. Mickey grabs at his hands, holds on so tightly, never wanting to let go again. Ian leans his forehead against his, eyes never leaving his, never wavering.

"Just look at me. I’m here. I am right here."

Strong and solid and still there and he helps Mickey breathe again.

He gets Mickey in the shower, gently washes the blood off his face, is careful with the cuts and the bruises and the water is warm and they stand together under the spray. Ian presses kisses to his forehead and down his his cheek, mumbles things to him, and Mickey closes his eyes, his face against Ian’s chest. 

He smells like Ian when they go to bed. Like his soap and his clothes and his bed and Ian wraps the blankets tightly around them, their legs tangled and arms holding each other, Mickey can’t tell where Ian begins and he ends.

Ian runs a hand through his hair, kisses his mouth slowly and gently, mumbles, “Proud of you. Just… so fucking proud.” And he looks at him like he means it, like he doesn’t regret it, doesn’t regret anything, not blood and fists and broken bottles and washing Mickey’s blood off. Like he doesn’t regret the destruction, the ashes of everything they once knew. He looks at Mickey like he’s the sun, like he’s the only thing worth saving, like he’s worth everything that’s happened.

Mickey presses his face into Ian’s neck, fists a hand in his shirt, wants to get as close as he can to him, just wants to feel him everywhere.

Mickey never wants to forget this night. Never wants to forget feeling this. Feeling home and so in love he can barely breathe.


End file.
